


Lead Me Home

by Aylwyyn228



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Depression, F/M, Gay Bucky Barnes, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Protective Steve Rogers, Stucky endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-28 17:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylwyyn228/pseuds/Aylwyyn228
Summary: He couldn’t help the little burst of fire in his gut, when someone clapped Stevie on the back, or when he was laughing at someone else’s dumb joke, goin all dizzy over Peggy.The fire that said ‘I loved you first. I loved you when we had nothin at all.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a writing exercise to see whether I could tell a story using linked snapshots in time. I'm posting it now because I needed a flashback to the good old days of relationship angst after Infinity War!

### August 1932

 Bucky sank down onto the bed. "You're a jerk, Rogers. You know that?"

Bucky could see the stiffness in Steve's shoulders as he stood with his back to him, wetting a washcloth and wringing it out. He hadn’t said a word the whole walk back. Just stalked along with that scowl on his face. The one Bucky had learned long ago to associate with an argument.

"I'm sorry, alright?" Steve turned round, holding out the cloth. "But ya didn't need to get involved."

That sounded like a whole heap of bull. What else was he gonna do? Just walk out on him?

Bucky took the cloth and kept his mouth shut, just neatly folded over the fabric and pressed it to his jaw. At least the coolness took the ache away.

Steve folded his arms and leaned against the counter. Silhouetted against the window like that, Stevie looked like the goddamn hero he’d always wanted to be, one of the knights in the storybooks his ma used to read to him.

Well, except for the look on his face. He was damn sure Lancelot had never glared like that.

Steve’s scowl deepened. "What?"

"What's what?"

"That look."

"It's just my face, punk. You want my charming smile, how's about you don't go getting me socked in the mouth."

"I didn't ask for your help." 

Bull.

Bucky just laid back on the bed. "Biggest guy I ever seen. Ya sure do pick em." 

"What's that mean?"

Bucky sighed, closed his eyes. Wasn't as if they hadn't had this conversation a thousand times. His entire life was following after Steve, while he picked a fight over some dame's honour, or cos some kid was getting picked on. There was trouble anywhere this side of the river, then you could be damn sure Steve-o was right in the middle of it. 

And by extension, so was Bucky.

Robbie Smith had offered to show him the ropes down at the boxing club. Maybe he’d take him up on it.

"I'm just saying, you ain't a white knight, you know? No need to go fixing the world all on your own." 

He felt the mattress dip with Steve's weight next to him, the warmth through his shirt as he laid down too, shoulder to shoulder. He was so busy thinking on that, that he almost missed Steve’s answer.

"I didn't like the way he was talking about Cathy Harris, that’s all. Ain't right."

Bucky just lay quiet for a second, kneading against the bruise and letting little spikes of pain fire up his nerves. "Who's Cathy Harris?"

"Shopgirl, at Fullertons. Here, let me." 

Bucky felt Steve sit up, felt the cloth being tugged out of his hand, then the cold press of it being dabbed against his lip. "The druggists'?" 

"Mmmm. Keep still."

He did, letting Steve get on with it. He got it, it was Steve's apology. It was the only one he was likely to get.

And it wasn’t as if Bucky was exactly opposed.

He waited until Steve finally sat back.

"Is it bleeding?"

"Nah, not anymore." 

He opened his eyes. Steve was looking down at him, leaning against the wall. That lopsided grin that he always had.

The grin that'd make Bucky forgive him anything.

"So, who's Cathy Harris to you? You sweet on her?"

"No!" Steve couldn't have sounded more unconvincing if he'd tried.

"Sure you're not." Bucky pushed himself up to sit at his side. "Want me to go talk to her for ya?"

Steve laughed. "Yeah, that'll go real well. You going in there. You'll end up taking her dancing on Friday night. I can see it now."

Bucky nudged his shoulder. "I ain't gonna steal your girl." 

Steve wasn’t looking at him, was fiddling with the afghan laid across the bed, sticking his fingers through the gaps and stretching it out. His ma was gonna pitch a fit if he kept pulling the damn thing apart. It was already looking pretty ragged.

Fifteen years of dealing with Stevie’d do that to you.

Steve sighed, let the afghan drop.

"Nah, s’alright. I'm pretty sure she's been going round with that big guy who nearly took your tooth out. He just ain't a gentleman, is all.” He looked over, grinned. “Besides, I ain't giving you any excuse to leave me alone at the weekend while you're out with some dame."

Bucky smiled. "I ain’t gonna abandon you."

"Damn straight." Steve frowned. "You're still bleedin a little."

He leaned over with the cloth again, to dab at his lip. Taking his sweet time about it too. Just biting his lip a little, in concentration.

It took everything Bucky had not to close his eyes. Not to lean in.

Because this was not happening. It couldn’t. He wasn’t gonna let it.

He turned away. "I should be goin, your ma will be back soon."

Steve laughed, sat back. "My ma loves you and you know it."

That wasn't exactly true. Steve's ma had loved him when he was ten years old and stuck to Steve's side like glue. 

But now he was sixteen. He’d been working at the docks near on three months, and he was filling out to start looking more like a man than a kid. 

He was getting a bit old to lay on a bed pressed up next to his best friend.

And Sarah Rodgers knew that as well as he did. Even if Stevie didn’t.

He sat up. "Nah, I promised Becca I'd bring candy back with me. Gotta get to the store before it shuts."

"Alright," Steve tossed the washcloth over to the sink. "Shall I come down tomorrow? Meet ya after work?" 

Stevie said it so easy. As if Bucky might ever say no. As if Bucky weren’t gonna spend all day thinking on seeing him.

Bucky forced a smile. "Course. Who else is gonna keep you outta trouble?"

Steve just gave a wicked grin back. “You never know, you might just make it back here with all your teeth.”

Christ, he was definitely taking Robbie up on that offer.

 

### May 1936

 

"Do that again?"

"What? This?"

Bucky stepped back again. Threw the ball high. Trying to get the angle the same. 

"Yeah. Thanks." 

Bucky smiled, he liked helping Steve practice. He was getting good. Late last summer, after he’d gotten over being so sick, he'd made a mint doing fifty cent portraits on the front. Though that’d mostly passed Bucky by, in his moody, sullen fit that’d lasted near on six months.

He intended to make up for it now.

He threw the ball a couple more times. 

"You know, I got a match on Friday." 

He was glad he’d started boxing again. It calmed him down. He didn’t really know why he’d stopped, except for a while everything had felt impossibly difficult.

"Mmhmm?" Steve didn't look up.

"Prize money's good. You could come down." He misjudged the angle of his throw, had to do a diving leap to catch it before it dropped and rolled into the lake. He just about kept his feet, looked back with a grin, but Steve gave no sign he'd seen. "Could double our money if you bet on me."

Steve did that look he always did, that twist of his lip when he disapproved. "Only if you win."

Bucky looked away. Threw the ball again. "Fine. Bet against me then. I don't mind." 

He heard Steve sigh. "Bucky..." 

"Nah, I mean, it doesn't matter. You don't have to come." 

He caught the ball again. A little flicker of shame igniting in his gut. He knew it burned at Stevie, the stuff he couldn't do. He shouldn't keep bringing it up. 

He strolled over, slumped down on the grass next to him. "Lemme see?"

Steve angled the paper towards him. It was full of tiny sketches. His hands. The curve of his shoulder. The expression on his face as he sighted the ball. Steve'd wanted to practice his motion shots. 

He'd been working in chalk. There was dark dust smudged into the pads of his fingers. The same dust that was covering the open lid of the chalks just behind Stevie’s back.

Steve was watching his face intently. "So? What do ya think?" 

Bucky let him wait, just a second longer, let him worry for just a moment. Then he let the grin slide across his face. "They're real good, pal."

Steve grinned. "Yeah? I wasn't sure if I'd got the perspective right. What about here?" He pointed at a sketch of Bucky's back, the flex of muscle beneath his shirt as he stretched to make a catch. "Do you think it looks right?"

"I dunno. I've never seen my own back, buddy."

Steve gave his chest a shove. "Jerk." 

Bucky shifted slightly, just dipped his hand into the open lid of the chalks. "I mean it though, pal. These are good. Ya oughta try and get something full time, steada just the summer."

Steve smiled up at him. "Ya think?"

Bucky gave a grin, just the right side of sincere. Clapped Steve on the back. "Of course I do."

Steve froze, his face going blank. "That was chalk dust, wasn't it?" 

He looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You jerk!" Steve shoved at him again, and Bucky took the opportunity to catch his arm and wipe a swirl of blue up his sleeve.

Then he ran.

Steve was spluttering and swearing as he jumped to his feet behind him. 

"Come here, jerk! Goddamnit!" 

"Least it matches your eyes!"

"Get back here!" 

Bucky let Steve chase him round the edge of the lake, watching for any sign that he was tiring. It was all fun and games until Stevie had an asthma attack and collapsed in the park... again.

So he faked a stumble so Steve could catch him and felt the slam of his body into his back. The grass came up to meet him and he felt Steve rubbing his hands over the back of his shirt in vengeance.

"Alright, towel's been thrown in, pal."

Steve let him sit up and then very, very deliberately wiped a smear of burgundy down his front.

Bucky leaned back on his elbows. "You gonna kick a man when he's down, Stevie?"

"Only way I can reach." Steve grinned, not looking apologetic at all. 

Then his eyes fell all of a sudden to the red smudge down Bucky's front. He gave his hands a quick wipe on his pants and reached up to thumb over the edge of it.

It was so casually intimate that Bucky was pretty sure he stopped breathing for a second. Then he noticed that there were eyes on them, watching. A half dozen construction workers, on their break. A cold shudder shot down his spine. Steve noticed too, following his gaze, and quickly dropped his hand.

He nodded down at the red dust on his shirt. "Last time I came down to watch ya, that fella broke ya nose.” He shrugged. “Guess I'm bad luck or something."

Bucky remembered, remembered Steve standing at the washbasin, scrubbing blood outta the front of his singlet while he was sat on the bed with his head between his knees, trying not to chuck his guts up onto the floorboards.

"Jesus, Stevie. That was what, two years ago? I been hit plenty of times when you ain't been there."

Steve looked up at him. "You sure you want me there?"

"I asked you didn't I?" He'd asked him to every bout for the last two years, every damn one, but it didn't seem the time to bring that up.

Steve broke into a grin of relief in any case. "Alright then, I'll come down. Take you out after, buy you a bourbon with my winnings."

"Sure. Only if I win though. You bet on the other fella and ya can keep your damn bourbon." 

Steve laughed, glanced over at where a couple of dames had been sat on a picnic blanket watching them for the last half hour or so.

Steve shook his head. "You know you can get over there, if ya want. I don't mind." 

Bucky watched them coolly for a second, as if he was considering. "Nah, they'll wait."

Steve slapped him lightly again. "You're such a jerk!"

He just shrugged, nodded over to where they'd abandoned their things. "You wanna get our stuff? Practice your portraits?"

"Depends. I don't work gratis, ya know." 

"I reckon I got a nickel in my coat."

Steve made out like he was thinking about it. He shrugged. "Seeing as it's you." He stood up, offered his hand and Bucky let himself be dragged up. "You better keep it though, be worth a fortune once I'm famous."  

Bucky laughed along, as if he hadn't kept every damn thing Stevie had ever given him.

 

### June 1941

“Buck?”

“Yes? Yeah?” He was already moving, rattling the frame of his bed into the wall as he forced himself up. It took him a second, standing in the middle of the room swaying, before he remembered where he was.

Steve was coughing again.

“Shit.” He stumbled over to the other bed. “I’m sorry, pal. I must’ve dozed off there for a minute. I’m here.”

It was a lot easier now with the beds in the same room. He’d taken Steve’s old bed when he’d got sick after his ma passed, for a few days that’d turned into two years. It’d made sense to move it when Steve’d got that godawful pneumonia last winter, when Bucky’d been up and down every night for near on a month and had the priest running over every week.

But it was a hell of a lot easier to just close his eyes for a minute too. When he shoulda been watching.

Steve looked worse, coughing into the sheets, sweater clinging to his skin. He must’ve got up to get it while Bucky was sleeping.

“You gotta take this off.” Bucky started tugging at the material, trying to drag it up his back, but Steve just made a noise of protest and curled up tighter. Started batting him away. “Steve, you’re too hot. We gotta… Stop fightin me, punk!”

Christ, he did not want to wrestle Stevie outta that damn sweater at three in the morning, but the night air was sticky and humid, and he could see the sweat pooling at the base of Steve’s throat.

“Stevie, lemme… Come on!”

But Steve gave up all of a sudden, went limp, and Bucky took the opportunity to drag it over his head. He dropped it the floor with a slightly damp thump. He’d probably end up burning the damn thing.

“Stevie? Steve?” The flush was back across his shoulders, high on his cheeks. His skin was burning as Bucky shook at him. “Stevie?”

He wasn’t answering. Wasn’t making any move at all.

Bucky was about ready to haul him up and shake him, when he drew in a huge breath to cough again.

At least if he was coughing he was definitely breathing.

But each cough was still followed by a painful sounding wheeze as he gasped for breath.

Bucky still thought it was whooping cough, whatever that damn quack said. But it wasn’t as if they had another option. Wasn’t as if they could spring for any more medicine either.

So Bucky plastered on his best fake smile. “I know, pal. You sit up for me alright? You’ll breathe better like that.” He pulled at him until Steve got moving under his own steam. “That’s it. Sit up and I’ll go check what we got.”

He went into the other room. Shame they couldn’t drag the damn cupboard in as well, but it was fastened to the wall beneath the sink.

“Buck?”

“I know. I’m coming back, Stevie. I promise.”

He splashed some water in his face from the faucet, and just there stayed for a second, leaning against the porcelain, letting the water drip down his skin. When he felt a little more alive, he crouched in front of the cupboard.

He could hear Steve gasping his name as dragged it open, looking for something, anything that might be some use. They were out of pretty much everything, including food, but he weren’t gonna let Stevie know that.

Bucky wouldn't get paid for four days. Christ almighty knew what they were gonna do. He knocked a couple of bottles out to clatter and roll across the floor as he shoved his hand right to the back. But he didn’t care, if they weren’t cough syrup, he didn’t give a damn.

He finally found what he was looking for. Paregoric, more than two thirds gone, and probably years old. It’d have to do. He grabbed a teaspoon from the sink, clutched the little brown bottle to his chest, and realised that Steve had gone worryingly quiet.

His heart dropped into his gut and he rushed back into the other room.

Steve was flat on his back, hands fisted into the sheets as he gasped in tiny breaths.

“Oh God, Stevie.”

Bucky dropped the bottle onto the side table and started pulling at him.

"Come on. Sit up." He managed to get a hand beneath Steve's shoulder and dragged him up enough to slide in behind him. His back was pressed against the wall, edge of the headboard digging into his spine and Steve leaning heavily against his chest. He could feel every convulsion of his chest.

"Breathe, Stevie, just breathe, alright?"

He leaned over, patting at the table until his hand closed around the bottle. "We ain't got any of your cigarettes. But I found some of this stuff. I knew we had some left."

"Buck… Bu..?" Steve broke off coughing again, shudders wracking through him.

"Come on, punk. Take this." 

He couldn’t really see what he was doing, with Steve balanced against his chest, but together they managed it.

Steve's breaths were still coming in fast and shallow. Bucky could feel his own speeding up, like they were in a race to see who could breathe themselves out first.

“Come on, that’s it. Just give it a minute, alright?”

He pulled him up further and they ended up with Steve's head tucked underneath his chin, Bucky's hand pressed against his chest, feeling his fluttering heart.

"Come on, breathe. Okay? Like we done before. Just breathe, Stevie."

"Bu..?"

"S'alright. Give it a minute. It's just this heat, is all. Makes the air feel too thick. The smoke clings to the river. That's all it is. You're alright."

They sat like that, Bucky running through every damn prayer he could remember. Even silently stuttering his way through the Latin that he’d begged Steve’s ma to teach him when he was a kid. Like maybe that’d make a difference.

He must’ve made a variation on that prayer a thousand times. Because he’d sworn he’d be there until the end. But it wasn’t the end yet. Not while he was still goddamn kicking.

He was pretty sure Steve was calming down, pretty sure he could feel his lungs clearing a bit. His heart was still thumping off beat every so often, but then it always did. After a minute or two, the tension flooded out of him. His hands unclenched from the sheets and he went boneless. He was breathing slow.

"See, you're alright. Oughta give you a clout, scaring me like that." 

Bucky was so close, he could smell the soap from Steve's sweat damp hair. He couldn't help it, just pressed his nose into the back of his hair, breathing him in, feeling the warm, living weight of him.

Because he was alive. Still alive. "You're alright."

"Buck?" Steve's voice was hoarse, whisper soft, but he was talking at least. 

"Yeah, Stevie, I'm here."

"M sorry I los' tha' job."

Bucky shifted so his chin was resting in Steve's hair. "What you worrying about that for now?"

Steve didn't answer for a long while, so long that if Bucky wasn't still feeling for every breath, he'd be panicking again. When Steve did start, Bucky knew instantly he wasn’t gonna like this conversation. He never did, not when Steve sighed like that.

"Ya can't keep doing this, Buck."

"Sure, I can."

"Ya gotta be at work in four hours."

"And I will be."

Steve sighed again, deep and long. “Ain’t safe, Buck. Peter Kowalski lost a hand in that hoist last month. Don’t think I don’t know. And I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t-“

He broke off into coughs again. Bucky tightened his grip, as if God or Mary or whoever the hell he’d been praying to had gone back on the deal. As if he could hold Stevie to this world.

He held on until Steve was patting at his wrist, trying to get him to ease up a bit.

“You gotta take care of yourself too.” He was panting after every couple of words still and Bucky could not talk about this now. Not now.

“Jesus, Stevie, you still on this? I gotta go in. There’s five guys for every job. I’ll lose my spot.”

"Buck, stop." Steve pushed himself up, disentangling himself from Bucky's arms, until he could look back. Still all flushed and sickly. "You think I can't see you're working yourself sick? We’ll work it out but it ain’t safe goin in worn-out like this.”

He didn’t need this bullshit now. Not when he was so goddamn exhausted and scared. Stevie acting like he was the one… Like he could just… what? Give up? Like he could just walk out and leave Stevie like this.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

He could feel the burn start at the back of his eyes, so he swiped at them. “I don’t know what you want. I’m just trying… I’m trying here.”

“I know that, Buck.”

He really wished Steve wouldn’t look at him like that, like Bucky was a puzzle that just needed figuring out. It sent a cold shiver through him, as if Steve’d eventually see right into his head.

Steve shuffled off him, to lean back against the wall next to him. He just kept looking at him. “Ya remember you told me I didn’t need to go fixing the whole world? Well, you don’t either. Ain’t all on you.”

That was bullshit too. This weren’t like picking some stupid fight. He weren’t trying to fix the whole world, just his little bit of it.

“Ain’t-“

“Let me finish, Buck. You’re a good guy, the best man I know. The very best. It’s true, Buck,” he said, in response to what Bucky was sure was the open scepticism on his face.

He knew Stevie thought it was true, didn’t make it so though. If he was any kind of man at all, he’d have told Stevie exactly why he was doing all this. He’d have told him that sometimes he watched him just to watch him.

Sometimes he thought that if he couldn’t touch him he might just burn up into nothing.

He felt Steve reach out, squeeze his wrist. “You gotta let me pay you back, Buck.”

He knew Stevie wasn’t talking about money. Money weren’t anything between them. He felt Steve’s eyes slide up and down him. “Are ya even eatin?”

“Sure I am-“

“Cos it sure don’t-“

“Will you leave it alone! Jesus Christ!”

He rubbed a hand over his face. Then a wave of guilt washed over him as Steve gave another huge sigh and closed his eyes, looking bone tired.

“Buck, ya never go anywhere, not anymore. Why’d you stop goin dancing? Going drinking after work?”

A sliver of ice worked its way down Bucky’s spine. He hadn’t thought Stevie’d noticed. But then again, Stevie noticed every damn thing. “I just ain’t felt like it.”

“What about that girl you were sweet on? Mary?”

“May. But you know I never-”

“Bucky, I just wish you could tell me what’s wrong. I know it’s not just money. I know-“

“Stop!” He didn’t mean to shout, but he could feel the burning behind his eyes, his throat begin to close up. It always seemed close these days. “I’m just tired, is all. With you being sick so often.”

And in that moment, he couldn’t feel more like scum, because Steve just deflated. He’d shoved it all back onto Stevie, when Stevie had never done a damn thing wrong in his life. Blamed him, like the goddamn coward he was.

Because he couldn’t tell him the truth. He just couldn’t.

Couldn’t put words to all of it even if he tried.

So he gave the world’s fakest grin. “You wanna help me, punk? Then get some sleep. Get better, okay? Then we’ll go dancing. I swear.”

There was a long pause as Steve ran his eyes over Bucky’s face and Bucky had to try and brazen it out. Steve looked away first. “Sure thing, Buck.”

 

### November 1941

 

He’d been as good as his word.

Just as soon as Steve was better, he’d started goin dancing again, and rekindled a bit of his reputation. Taking out a different girl every week.

It suited him. He liked the looks people gave him. He liked the way it made him feel, and he liked the fact that the girls didn’t have chance to get attached. They knew what they were getting if they went to the dancehall or the pictures with him.

Sometimes when he was feeling up to it, Steve would come with him, though he’d never dance.

Bucky didn’t know how he felt about it.

Well, of course he did. He loved having Steve along. It was just that when Steve was there, he tended to spend a lot more of his attention on him, than whichever dame he’d managed to sweet talk into accompanying them.

And that pretty much defeated the purpose.

It weren’t working anyway. Hell, he liked the girls well enough, sure he did. Some of them were funny and sweet. Most of them were good company.

But none of them were Stevie and he often found his mind wandering.

And at night, laying alone with nothing else to occupy him, it wasn’t any of them that came to him. It was Steve, with his damn fool smile and his clothes that were always a half size too big.

The slender length of his fingers.

The way his lip curled when he laughed….

And all Steve kept doin was talking about what a swell guy he was.

As if he didn’t have these thoughts. As if he weren’t disgusting.

Well, it had to stop. It just had to.

If he could just fix himself, then it could all go away.

Which is how he had ended up here. Wandering down to the docks, in the middle of the damn night.

He just had to up the ante. He’d fix it. He could fix himself. He just needed something more is all.

And there was a limit to how far he’d go with any of the girls. Even if he convinced any of them to let him, it weren’t right, leading em on. And he sure didn’t want any brothers or fathers knocking on his door, demanding to know when the wedding was.

He knew the way real well, he walked it every day, which meant he could pick his path, avoid meeting anyone. He didn’t want any of the guys to recognise him, on their way back from a late shipment.

He didn’t want _that_ kind of reputation.

He passed one street, a narrow back alley and saw who he was looking for. Trying to avoid the sick feeling in his stomach, he walked onwards.

“Hey, sweetie, you here all on your lonesome?”

She was quite tall, dark hair all set in curls, lipstick which he suspected was red, but seemed black in the darkness. Her accent was thick, foreign, he had no idea from where.

His mouth was suddenly dry.

She smiled. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

Now he was up close, he could see that she was older than him by a good ten years.

“I only got a dollar.”

Now it was out there, that sounded like a pretty stupid thing to say.

She smiled again, but it was ever so slightly fixed. “Only costs a dollar, sweetheart. Come on.”

She tugged at his hand, leading back further into the alleys. The sick feeling in his stomach was growing with every second.

“What’s your name?” He asked to fill the silence.

She looked back, eyebrow raised. “Betsy.”

He laughed. “Really?”

She couldn’t sound less like a Betsy if she tried.

She smiled. “No, it’s Jela.”

She apparently reached wherever she wanted to be because she stopped, and turned to face him expectantly.

He didn’t know what to do. In fact, he was about a second from bolting. The only thing that stopped was the hate he knew he’d feel for himself later. What kind of man ran away from a dame?

She seemed to realise at least some of that. She stepped forward and kissed him, trailing lightly down to his jaw. “Don’t worry, darling. Close your eyes.”

He did. It was easier.

He felt her hands trail down. The click of his belt buckle. She was tugging him out.

And suddenly she was… And it was… And he didn’t…

Oh, Christ…

He curled his hands into her hair. But he didn’t know… He’d never…

This was gonna get very embarrassing real soon.

Real, real soon.

He pulled her off, pushed her backwards and without even saying anything she was already on her hands and knees, skirt hitched up over her hips.

He didn’t let himself think, couldn’t, or he wouldn’t be able to. He dropped to his knees behind her, felt her breath hitch at the same time his did.

Elsie Miller, who’d come with a reputation all of her own, had let him put his hand up her skirt in the back of the Loew’s Pitkin Theatre, and she’d seemed pretty pleased about it.

He let his hand slip down from where it was braced on her hip, into the warm press of her. Felt the stutter of her movement underneath him.

He still felt sick.

He tried to blank it all from his mind. To not think about what he was doing. To not think about anything at all. He was faltering, he knew. He wouldn’t be able to… He couldn’t…

Shit.

He pulled her closer, harder. Tried harder not to think about anything.

He kissed the back of her neck, where her hair was pinned up, away from her skin, but in his head it was blond.

And the body beneath him was harder, and was whispering out his name.

Before he realised what he’d done, it was too late and their breaths were coming in together, her hand reaching up and back to pull him in close as he finished.

They stayed where they were for a second, as horror washed over him, wiping out any pleasure he’d felt. Then he pushed himself off her.

It hadn’t worked. He was…

She was laughing, a little breathlessly, as she got to her feet, tugging her skirt down. Her lipstick was smudged where she’d bitten her lip and her hair had come down from its pins. “You can come back anytime you like.”

Her nylons were ripped at the knees, little grazes showing up dark against her skin.

His heart constricted. He’d hurt her. He was worse than just a faggot. He was…

“I’m sorry.”

She glanced up, then followed his eye line down to her knees. “Oh, it happens, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I can buy another pair.”

He knew what was coming now. He felt sick.

He pulled out a handful of change. “I got a dollar…” he counted it out “and twenty-eight.” He looked up. “That’s all I got.”

She held out her hand, smiling sadly again. “I meant it. Come back any time.”

He watched her go, and as soon as she vanished into the darkness, the churning in his gut came back. He felt sick. He might actually be sick.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

There was no way out. He couldn’t run from it. Couldn’t fix himself.

He really was broken.

***

He didn't go home right away. Couldn't. It was too much, it was... 

It was very late when he got back. Late enough that he was glad it was Sunday tomorrow. 

He couldn't have gone in to work, he just couldn't. Then again, he couldn't face anything about tomorrow. Or the next day…

He felt empty, and too full at the same time. Like he was a pit all filled up with lead. 

He didn't know what to do. 

He had to go home in the end. There was nowhere else to go. 

He still felt sick. He kept remembering the way it'd felt, touching her, inside her. His stomach kept turning over unpleasantly, as if it was trying to force its way out of his throat.

He crept his way up the steps and unlocked the door, trying his damnedest not to make a noise.

He clicked the door shut carefully behind him, ready to creep over to his bed.

"Buck?"

Bucky's heart froze. He turned round slowly. 

Steve was sitting up in bed. He had the old kerosene lamp lit on the side, and by its light Bucky could see his hair was still neatly combed.

"Where’ve you been, Buck?" 

He'd been waiting up. The thought hit Bucky all of a sudden. Steve had been waiting up for him. He'd been worried.

The thought broke whatever resolve he had left. His throat constricted and he couldn't stop the tears. He dropped his head into his hands.

"Bucky? Buck, what's happened?" 

He heard rapid footsteps across the room, felt Steve's hands on him, rubbing up and down his arms. 

"Bucky? Is it your ma? Has something happened? Come on, let's sit down." 

He let Steve pull at him, lead him over to the bed.

Steve had never seen him cry, he realised, not ever. Not even when his pa had passed. He must think that something awful had happened. Because Bucky was so selfish, he couldn’t even get himself together to pretend to be normal. Had to get all hysterical about it, like some dame…

And suddenly, his knees went from under him. How Steve stopped him hitting the floor he’d never know, but he supposed it said something about how shitty he looked that Steve was apparently ready for it.

Steve dragged him the last couple of steps to the bed and dropped him onto it. “Hang on a second.”

Bucky just watched him as he went and grabbed the lamp and put it on the table next to him. Steve sank to his knees in front of him. He reached up and brushed the hair back from his forehead, like he was checking his temperature.

Hell, maybe he was.

“Buck? What’s happened? What’s wrong?” Steve dropped his hand to grab at his wrist, shook him slightly. “Bucky? Buck? Okay. Alright.”

He rubbed his free hand across his eyes. Bucky felt him squeeze against his wrist. “I’m gonna go get the doctor, ok?”

That jerked Bucky out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “No.”

He grabbed Steve’s hand and then dropped it again on instinct, as if some bit of him just knew if he let all of that in, if he opened up that door then he could never, ever go back.

Steve was frowning. He dropped into a crouch in front of him, hand resting against his knee. He squeezed slightly and when he spoke, it was like he was talking to someone who was drunk, or nuts. “You’re not right, Buck. You’re sick.”

Bucky just nodded. It was easier. It was something Steve understood. He couldn’t… there was no way he could explain. He didn’t want to. Steve would…

But Steve was nodding, like that decided it for him.

And Bucky just couldn’t allow it, couldn’t let Steve go on thinking he was dying or mad or something. He couldn’t face the guilt of realising.

He hadn’t been hiding it well at all. He’d felt like he’d been just on the edge of control for months. Morose days and frantic nights. As if a few hours of drinking and dancing could make up for the fact that half the afternoons he weren’t working, he took to his bed in silence.

Steve had been worried. Not just tonight, but for weeks. That’s why he’d waited up.

Well, it couldn’t carry on.

“No.” Bucky caught his hand again and this time he held on, flashed a grin he was sure looked forced. “I’m alright, punk. I swear. I was just a little dizzy there for a second. I’m fine.”

Steve looked distinctly unconvinced. “Bucky, you’re not…” he sighed, closed his eyes. “Alright. Come on and get into bed then.” He stood up and the way he shoved at Bucky’s shoulder left no room for argument. Steve forced his own smile. “Can’t have ya swooning all over the place.”

Bucky gave in. He didn’t really have the fight in him. It was a second before he realised he was still in his clothes, but by that point Steve was already dragging at his shoes, gently pulling the laces free.

“You go on and go to sleep.” Steve dropped the shoes to the floor and tugged the blanket over him. “I’m no cook, so how’s about tomorrow I run over to old Mrs Benedetti? Get her to make that minestrone ya like? Ya know she’s sweet on ya.”

Bucky closed his eyes, he didn’t wanna see all that concern looking back at him. “Sure thing, Stevie.”

He heard Steve shuffling around for a few minutes and then felt a weight depress the end of the bed. He cracked an eye open to find Steve sat cross legged, illuminated by the lamp, clutching a book.

“’S too dark for that.”

Steve glanced across, smiled. “Nah, it’s alright.”

Bucky knew what he was doin, of course. Weren’t as if he hadn’t done it a hundred times himself, sittin up looking over one of his sisters, or Steve, when they were sick.

He oughta hate himself for it. He did, really. For acting like he had been, making Steve worry.

But as he laid listening to the flutter as Steve turned the pages, he realised that he didn’t mind all the rest of it, didn’t mind what he was, as long as he could have this.

He didn’t want anything else, not so long as he still had this.

As long as he still had Steve.

The thought was like a release.

Nothing had to change. Steve never had to know. He could play the part, had been already, after all.

He just had to be better at it, couldn’t go worrying Stevie like he had been.

But he could have this. He could pretend, and have this. As long as Stevie never knew.

They were quiet for a long time, Bucky just listening to the sound of Steve shuffling. So long in fact, that Stevie must have thought he’d fallen asleep. There was a pause in the noise and Bucky could feel Steve’s eyes on him even through the dark. When he spoke, it was barely a breath.

“Wish you’d talk to me, Buck.”

Christ, didn’t he wish he could. But that’d tear everything apart, and he couldn’t, couldn’t bear it.

Because he loved Steve.

He’d have thought that realisation would be bigger. That it would hurt more than the other, what he was, but it didn’t.

He loved Steve, and Steve was here. With him.

And Bucky could live with that.

 

### March 1942

Bucky lit the second cigarette off his own, or tried to, the wind blowing off the bay was making it surprisingly difficult. He sighed in frustration. “Wish I could take you somewhere.”

Jela leaned across to cup her hands around where he was struggling. “I’m not the sort of dame that gets taken to a hotel, sweetheart.”

“I know.” He passed her the cigarette and took a drag of his own, leaning back against the wall. “I wish I could though.” He grinned across. “Only the best for my best girl.”

She settled herself on one of the empty crates next to him, crossing her ankles neatly in front of her, as if a half dozen men hadn’t had her against the wall just last night.

“Bet you say that to all the girls. I’ve seen you at the dancehall on a Friday.”

She was grinning, he could see the curve of her lip where she was turned away.

“But I only come home to you.”

She laughed. “Such a gentleman.”

A couple of guys wandered past, from one of the other gangs, just coming on shift to load up the freighter that’d come in last night. They scowled at him, so he grinned back. He knew the reactions he got, knowing Jela so well. The guys he classed as friends teased him about it. Everyone else openly disapproved, talked about how he had no shame.

Well, let them. It only added to his cover anyway.

He'd had to do something about it anyway. They’d met pretty frequently given both of them spent most of their time at the docks. He’d said hello and stopped to talk, mostly as a way of warding off the shame and awkwardness he felt about the whole thing.

Masking it with confidence was about the only strategy he had and he wasn’t about to give it up now.

Eventually they’d fallen into a routine where a couple of times a week, she’d wander down on his break and they’d share a couple of cigarettes.

They always did this, sat watching the buzz of the port around them. A shipment had come in that morning, something from India, but he weren’t privy to know what. He never was. Sometimes the crates smelt nice though, as they sat on the dockside waiting to be picked up, and heated up in the sun.

Sometimes they’d talk about that. Imaginings about far off places.

She hadn’t ever brought up what’d happened. He reckoned she’d guessed about him, but they’d never spoken about it.

He liked that about her.

It didn’t look like they’d be talking today. She kept running her hand over her hair automatically, as if to keep checking her pins were in place, flicking at the cigarette with her thumb, compulsively.

He shifted away from the wall to sit at her side. “You heard anythin?”

She didn’t answer for a long while.

“No.”

Her brother was still in Europe. He was working for money for passage, a place called Beograd. Bucky weren’t gonna admit that he didn’t have a clue where that was.

Jela had intended to send money back, but was having trouble even keeping herself on whatever indulgences the stevedores could afford.

And now with everything happening over there, he didn’t envy her waiting on news.

He didn’t really have anything to say. He was never any good with words, not with any that weren’t said with a smirk anyway.

So he just nudged her knee with his and went back to his cigarette.

He caught a flash of blond through the gap in the unloaded crates over by the alley and felt his heart do its patented flip flop.

He jumped up and waved. “Steve!”

Steve noticed him instantly of course, and changed course to meet him. Christ, he was pretty, shoving his hands into his pockets, frowning as if he was trying to pick a fight with the world.

Bucky grinned as Steve reached them. “You came down.”

“Sure I did.”

Bucky glanced down to Jela. She was smiling in a way he didn’t really want to try to interpret. “This is Jela.”

Steve nodded to her stiffly. “Nice to meet ya.”

Steve probably disapproved. It wouldn’t surprise him.

It evidently didn’t phase Jela, she just nodded back, that faint smile still on her face. She turned back to Bucky, held out her hand. “Are you leaving me, sweetheart?”

He pulled her to her feet.

“Never.” He kissed her hand and earned a laugh in return. “I never could.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

He watched as she turned and walked away.

Steve was watching too, the edge of his lip turned down slightly. Bucky knew that look very well. It said ‘I don’t like what you’re doin but I don’t wanna fight ya on it’.

Bucky flicked his cigarette away, slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders, hoping it might defuse at least some of the tension. “Come on.”

“What is it you wanna show me anyway?”

Bucky grinned. “Wait and see.”

They wound their way through the people still working as Bucky led him along the side of the river.

Steve kept looking at him.

“Out with it, punk.”

Steve just smiled. “You really sweet on her?”

Bucky laughed. Steve really hadn’t got a clue. “Nah, she’s sweet is all. She laughs at my jokes.”

“You sure she speaks English?”

“Well, ha ha. I’ll have you know the dames love my jokes. It’s just you that ain’t got a sense of humour.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

They’d reached the Navy Yard and Bucky wound his way through the shipwrights and the dock workers, til he saw what he’d come for.

“Look at that.”

Every time he came down, he would swear that the ship’d got bigger. It just stretched off down the docks. There was still a bit of movement on her, people running around on deck, but nothing like the whirl of activity that’d been around her the last year or so. He’d been coming down every week or so to see their progress.

“The North Carolina. They say they’re gonna launch any day. Over seven hundred feet long. You ever seen a thing like that, Stevie?”

Steve was just gazing up and down it with even less interest than usual. “Sure is a lot of ship.”

Bucky sighed, and planted himself directly in front of Steve. “Alright, what is it? I know you got something to say. Ya usually at least pretend to be interested in what I’m saying.”

Steve was looking anywhere but at his face. “Can we sit down someplace?”

A little icy rock settled into his stomach. That was never good. Especially coming from Stevie.

He didn’t let it show. “Sure thing.”

There was a low wall separating the shipyard from the street next to it. He led Steve over and settled himself onto it. Then he took out another cigarette, namely to give himself something to do with hands that suddenly didn’t wanna keep still.

Steve didn’t say anything for a long while so they just sat, listening to the gulls and one of the apprentices getting laid into by his foreman somewhere just out of sight.

Bucky’s gut had decided to do some kind of jittery dance inside him, and he wanted to just shake Steve to get him to spit it out. He didn’t. And in the end, his cigarette had burned right down before Steve started.

“I think you should move out.”

And right there, Bucky’s heart just about stopped. He knew it’d have to happen, weren’t as if Steve was gonna be happy without a dame forever. He’d known that. Stevie would get married and he’d… he’d just be on his own.

But he hadn’t expected it yet. Hadn’t been prepared at all.

And he couldn’t help it now. Couldn’t help the rolling waves of despair churning over in his gut. The fact that in the deepest pit of his heart he just wanted to drop down onto his knees. He wanted to curl into a ball on the paving stones.

He wanted to beg.

And he hated himself for that.

He hadn’t answered, and he could feel Steve shifting uncomfortably at his side. “It was real sweet what you did after ma died, when I got sick. Everyone said so. You’re the best man I know. My best friend. You know that. But it’s been four years.”

A lifetime wasn’t long enough, not for Bucky. But he got what Steve was saying. He was sick of him, of his endless cycle of energy and despondency. He got that. He exhausted himself.

He still hadn’t answered, so Steve ploughed on, increasingly insistent, desperate for Bucky to say something. But Bucky didn’t have the words.

“I ain’t been sick in nearly a year. I’m working, and who’d have ever thought that!”

That was meant to get to get a laugh outta him, but he didn’t really have the heart. He really wished he had another cigarette.

“I just figured you’d wanna be settling down or… You spent the last six or seven years taking care of someone or other and I just thought… Christ, I ain’t saying this right at all.”

He felt rather than saw Steve drop his head into his hands. It was pretty hard to see anything while he was staring at his own boots.

He heard Steve sigh. “You ain’t right, Buck. Still. You don’t ever-“

“’M fine.”

“You’re not…” Steve sighed again. “People are talking, Buck. And that’s the honest truth. And I know its…”

Bucky missed the end of the sentence as he went suddenly cold.

Steve knew. He _knew_.

“Ah, I didn’t wanna tell ya, Buck. I knew ya wouldn’t like it...”

They’d never talked about that night. Bucky’d figured Steve had just put it down to fever or a fit of melancholy or something. But he hadn’t. He’d known even then. When he’d said Bucky was sick, said he wasn’t right…

And he hadn’t said a word. He’d kept Bucky’s secret.

More than that, he’d let him stay, even knowing all that he knew.

And even now, when apparently the whole world was starting to take notice, he still weren’t laying into him about it. Just quietly had a word, trying to save Bucky from himself.

He weren’t disgusted. Or horrified.

He was trying to protect him.

Christ, Sarah Rogers oughta have called him Jude, what with all the lost causes he was intent on saving.

He hadn’t thought he could love Stevie any more. Hadn’t thought there was any room left in him for it.

He’d been wrong.

Of course he’d do what Stevie asked, couldn’t be dragging him down with him. It weren’t fair. Especially not with how sweet he’d been about it.

“Oh, Buck,” he felt a ghost of touch over his arm, before Steve apparently thought better of it, “don’t look like that, please. I knew I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I promise I won’t-“

“No, you’re right.”

Bucky had to do this. Had to. He’d thought once before how he’d burn all up if he let all this feeling in, and right now it felt like he was well on his way.

So he had to, for Steve.

Before he couldn’t hide it any more.

So he forced himself to meet Steve’s eye, to force a smile. “Lizzie’s been wanting to marry that Benny guy, anyway. You know, the Marine. So Becca and Rosie’ll be wanting help with ma.”

He didn’t think Steve could look so sad.

“Buck, that’s not what I meant. Ya don’t gotta-“

“I gotta get back to work.” He stood up so suddenly he almost knocked Stevie backwards off the wall. “I’ll come round after. Pick up my stuff.”

“Bucky, please don’t-“

But he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t listen to Steve be all nice about it. He knew he could convince Stevie to let him stay. Knew he had all the charm to do it.

And he didn’t trust his tongue not to do it without his say so. Not when he felt so empty.

He’d never do that to Steve. Not ever.

“See you tonight.”

He could hear Steve calling his name, but he couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t look Steve in the eye.

Not when he might just fall to his knees after all.


	2. Chapter 2

### April 1943

 

It was late when he finally made his way down to the docks, and he was drunk. Not stumbling drunk, but the world had taken on a woozy, blurry quality, and the reflection of the street lamps off the sidewalk was making him dizzy.

His heart hadn't been in it tonight, not after Steve'd…

He didn't know what he'd expected. Nothing really. Nothing he'd let himself think on. But his traitor heart had apparently been planning all on its own, without input from the rational bit of his mind.

In any case, afterwards he hadn't had the heart for it. And he'd been left waiting for a reasonable time to drop the girls off safely at their houses. Certainly not the night long dancing he’d promised, but at least he could cry off what with having to ship out early.

He hadn’t gone home though. Couldn’t face it. His ma had been crying pretty much since he got his orders. He didn’t want to lay awake and listen to her. Not again.

So he’d found a bar and set about trying to drink his own weight in whiskey.

But the bar he'd found had been too lively, too full of singing and drinking and people clapping him on the back. Telling him what a swell guy he was to be going off to shoot some poor bastard he didn't even know.

He didn't have the energy to keep up the pretence. He was tired and heartsick and empty.

He wanted someone he could drop the mask with. Someone who could make it all seem a bit less godawful, just for an evening.

He wanted Stevie.

But that was apparently too much to ask.

The docks were quiet. The rain had set in late in the evening and had apparently driven everyone off, including Jela and any of her potential clients.

That weren't gonna stop him. He was a goddamn Sergeant in the US infantry. He had the stripes to prove it. He could find one fucking dame in Red Hook.

He followed the streets until he reached the block he was certain she was living in. Stomped his way up and then made a nuisance of himself hammering on doors, until a broad in a hairnet emerged with a scowl and told him Jela was two stories up.

She answered the door on the first knock, clutching a robe around herself and peering round the door. She relaxed when she saw it was him, and on a better day he'd have been asking if she'd been waiting on the landlord.

As it was, he just let her gesture him inside.

It was grotty, about two thirds of the size of the Warren Street tenement, and a damn sight smaller than his ma's place. Three beds, she likely shared it with a couple of the other hookers. 

Today it was empty.

Jela was already pouring them out a couple of generous measures of gin. 

She held out a glass. "You're shipping out then?"

"Tomorrow." 

The drink burned his throat, about a thousand times better than the cheap whiskey he'd been knocking back.

She smiled slightly. "Think it's probably today by now."

"Yeah, well, my double date fell through." He fumbled in his pocket for a second, dragged out a handful of bills from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. "I buy you for the night?" 

He saw the flicker of hurt cross her face, felt his stomach turn over on itself, cos he really was fucking scum.

But then, before he could really latch onto the burgeoning self-hatred, she sat down on one of the beds. "That bad, huh?"

"You wouldn't..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Yes. Yeah." 

He slumped down onto the bed next to her.

"It wasn't what you'd hoped for?"

His stomach turned over again, as he imagined a thousand tearful confessions. Goodbyes lasting the whole night at Warren Street.

Hands and lips and hope. 

"How could it ever have been?" 

"Oh, sweetheart."

"He didn't even want to see me." He could feel himself start to cry, because of course, he had to get maudlin. "Couldn't put it away for one day. Not one. Couldn't give me one damn evening."

Cos it was that that he couldn't square with Stevie, his Stevie. This coulda been it. They might never see each other again. 

He might never come back.

He knew thing's had been strained between em. How could it ever not have been? What with Steve knowin what he knew.

But he'd've thought Stevie might wanna say a proper goodbye, at least.

But Steve couldn't put his damn pride away for one evening. Talking about the goddamn glory of war and men laying down their lives, when he oughta’ve been thanking Christ almighty he didn't have to go.

Cos Stevie hadn't seen what a grenade looked like when it exploded. He hadn’t had to sit through a squad of guys patting him on the back in the mess hall about what a great shot he was, how he was gonna kill a whole heap of Krauts.

The thought of it made him sick.

"He doesn't want you to go?"

"Oh, no." He laughed, wondered if he’d ever felt less like laughing. Slugged the rest of his gin back. "That ain't it at all." 

Jela hummed at his side. "Sweetheart, I don't understand." 

"No. I don't either. He just... I don't know. Maybe it's just his chance to be rid of me."

"Darling." 

He let himself be tugged over, pulled limply into a hug. He pressed his face into the collar of her robe.

"I didn't mean that. Stevie, he just feels everything so much. I guess I just thought he might be able to let it go for a night, you know? But I don't think he even thought about it. Where I'm going. That I might not..." 

Jela made a noise in the back of her throat, pulled him tighter.

“I’m just so fucking mad at him. I didn’t want it to be like this. It’s not his fault. He’s… I just… Shit.” He sat back, rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit, I’m pretty swacked.”

He finished his gin anyway, fished out his pack of Luckies. Tried not to think of it as one for the road.

Jela took one and they sat in silence, adding to the smoke stains on the window glass.

Jela looked real tired. He shouldn’t’ve come here, weren’t fair layin all this on her.

He nudged her shoulder. “What’s your brother’s name?”

She snapped round. “What?”

“Your brother’s name? Case I meet him.”

For a second, he thought he’d said something awful, because for a second she looked as if she might cry. Then she gave a wry laugh, took a shaky drag on her cigarette. “You’ve got no idea how big the world is. They’re sending boys to fight boys.”

She rubbed at her face, wiping away tears he was pretty sure hadn’t fallen yet, said something he couldn’t understand. From the tone he’d have laid money that she was cursing.  

“He’s joined the partisans.”

“Your brother?”

She nodded, and he watched as her next drag burned up a good half of the rest of her Lucky. “He was never going to get the boat. He never intended….” She swore again, dropped her cigarette and crushed it underneath her heel. They both just stared at the ashy smear across the floorboards.

She looked up. “That’s why you’ve gotta come back, you hear?”

He didn’t make the promise, the trite shit that the back of his brain was supplying. He reckoned she knew why.

“What’s his name? Just in case.”

He waited as she searched his face.

Finally, she sighed. “Mirko. Milovanovic.”

He forced a smile. “Might have to write it down.” He caught her hand and squeezed. “I’ll remember it. I promise.”

Jela squeezed back. She glanced out of the window. “You have to go home, sweetheart.”

He looked away. “I know.”

He didn’t think he could. Wasn’t sure he could face pretending. Hugging his ma while she cried. Becca. His smile had felt frozen onto his face for weeks, and now when it came to the final act, he didn’t think he could pull it off.

Christ, he wished Stevie was gonna be there with him. He’d always found it easier to play the part with Steve there, knowing that Steve could see through it easy enough most of the time.

But he’d already said his goodbyes to Stevie. As dissatisfying as it’d been.

And now it was just him… having to smile and wave and pretend like he couldn’t think of anything better than to be heading out across the sea.

“I don’t think I can.”

Jela stood up, tugging at his wrist. “Yes, you can.”

He knew she knew exactly what he meant. He let himself be pulled to his feet and dragged into another hug. He felt Jela’s breath against his neck. “You can, because they need you to, sweetheart. And you’ve always been good at that.”

She was right. He had to keep his doubt from his ma, from his sisters, especially from Becca. It was the reason he’d lied about being drafted, said he’d signed up. If it was his choice, it was a little less awful for them.

And if he never came back, at least they could tell everyone what a hero he’d been, steada remembering how the army had had to drag him kicking and screaming off to war.

How he’d probably died pissin all over himself in some ditch.

It was better for everyone to think he’d had a choice in it.

So he pulled back, gave Jela the brightest, most charming grin he could muster.

She smiled back, thumbing away the dampness on his cheek. “There you go, sweetheart.”

 

### July 1943

 

Bucky twisted on the floor, as if he might be able find a bit of floorboard that was softer than the rest.

Course, he oughta think himself lucky. They might be on the floor, but at least they were inside. Who knew when that’d happen again….

Tomorrow they were getting the boats, landing at Mollarella.

They’d been reliably informed that, all the NCOs, noddin solemnly, like that meant a goddamn thing to any of them at all.

Training for landings had been fucking godawful, he couldn’t imagine trying to do it under fire.

A sick feeling settled in his gut.

One that definitely put paid to tryin to sleep at all.

He sighed, shuffled onto his back, listened to the breathing of the whole company filling up the hall. He tried to let it fill him up too, empty out all his thoughts.

But he kept coming back to tomorrow.

Imagining the ice of the water, hitting his face from the disembarking of too many men. Too much machinery. Imagining willingly running up a fucking beach at a machine gun nest that was firing back. The explosion of tank shells.

He grunted again, angry at himself, thinking too damn hard, while everyone else was getting all of their last night of sleep.

Their last night…

He rolled over again, trying to push that thought outta his head, and came face to face with open eyes.

He went still.

Bailey, his brain supplied, another NCO. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever spoken to him, couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard his first name.

They laid staring at each other.

Bucky could make out the dark circles beneath his wide eyes. The same haunted look that he was pretty sure he had…

Too much thinkin and frettin for sleep.

But there was something else, beneath all that… Something desperate.

Neither of them moved. But they watched each other. Dust motes floating in the air between them, lit up by some streetlamp outside the window.

Absolutely still.

And then, ever so slowly, Bailey shuffled himself an inch closer, and paused.

Bucky didn’t move.

Bailey was biting at the inside of his lip, and Bucky could hear his breathing above everyone else’s, as he inched closer.

He could roll over, away. It wouldn’t mean anythin, neither of them would bring it up. It’d never be mentioned again.

He didn’t move.

It didn’t take long til they were close enough to feel each other’s breath, Bailey apparently spurred on by his compliance. They were all sleeping close anyway, it didn’t take much to take it firmly into intimate.

Bailey was just watching him. There was a question in his eyes, and for a second, Bucky was worried he was going to make him nod.

Make him ask for it.

But he musta seen something in his face, because ever so slowly, he reached out, edged under the thin blanket covering him.

Bucky felt the warmth of his hand against his stomach. Another question.

Bucky nodded this time. Just a little. Feeling the scratch of fabric against his cheek. Then closed his eyes.

He could feel Bailey’s hand slip further down, gently, and find its mark. There was a faint sickness in his gut, imagining the faggots he’d seen, taking each other apart, rough against the brick. Against the bathroom tiles. 

But that floated away the second Bailey touched him. He was slow, warm. Touching Bucky like he was worth something.  

He felt his breath hitch as that heat seemed to swell up within him, and meet his own.

It didn’t take much. Christ, it’d been weeks.

He could hear Bailey, the laugh in his breath, coming out almost like a shush against his face.

Bucky suddenly wanted more of him, all of him.

He reached out blindly, the same way Bailey had. Slipped his hand beneath fabric, found him hard.

It felt… odd… bein the other side of it, touchin someone else’s, but it wasn’t bad…

He started moving his hand more determinedly. Felt Bailey hitch and shudder.

And a swell of warmth ran through him, swelling out from his chest this time. The feel of someone letting themselves be vulnerable beneath his hand.

Of someone trusting him, letting him share this with them.

He opened his eyes, found Bailey looking back again.

He found himself smiling, matching Bailey.

Their pace picked up, feedin off each other. Their breaths were coming harsher, but still quiet beneath the sound of skin on skin, the rustle of fabric.

There was no movement around them, just each other.

Bailey was beginning to flush.

Bucky was close. Could feel it. He suddenly wanted to finish together.

He changed his rhythm, and Bailey closed his eyes the second before he felt himself tipping over the edge. The rush of it.

And he could feel Bailey’s breath against his face, the warmth of him across his hand.

Bucky was smiling again.

They parted as soon as they were through it, wiping their hands against the blankets, and rolling back to a respectable distance.

Bucky’s heartrate was still high, fast, beating out of his throat. But he felt it slowing, imagined he could feel Bailey’s too.

There was no movement in the hall but the steady sleep shuffles of the rest of the company.

They were both laid on their backs. Nothing but memory and the fading flush to say that anything had happened at all.

Then he felt the brush of a warm hand against his. One last question.

Bucky curled their fingers together in answer.

And he slept.

 

### August 1943

 

“I swear these are gettin worse.”

Bucky grinned into his pack as he rooted around. He was pretty damn sure he’d heard this three times a day for the last month.

“Whadda you think?”

He glanced up to where Len was sat, leaning against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him. “I agree.”

Len huffed and threw his canteen to thud lightly against his arm. “Y’always agree.”

“Mmhmm.” He finally found his ration pack and scooted to sit by the wall at his side. “Ya don’t find it charmin?”

“Find it aggravatin and you know it.”

It tasted the same to Bucky, bland and vaguely metallic, but he supposed hunger might be masking it for him.

The air was muggy and thick, as they sat, looking out over the harbour. Better than the blinding heat of the day, that was true. But still. Made him think of sitting in the tenement with Steve hacking his lungs up in the summer heat.

Still, he’d heard tell they’d be moving on soon. Across the sea to Italy.

Or maybe this was already Italy. He had no idea.

He felt Len’s hand slip onto his leg.

And a flicker of ice slipped down his spine.

“Not here.”

It was true, camp was settling down for the evening now the sun had dropped, and they were reasonably concealed behind the low wall separating them from their squads.

But it still scared the shit outta Bucky.

It _always_ scared the shit outta Bucky.

Len moved his hand without a word.

Bucky didn’t know how he’d allowed this to happen.

The whole thing was just fucking nuts.

He would never have thought it. Sergeant Leonard Bailey, straight outta Albany, Georgia. Or nearby anyway. From a whole line of farm labourers, and looking like it too.

Easily half a head taller than him, and about as wide again.

Jesus Christ.

He supposed it proved a point to himself. He weren’t just moony over Steve. He really was a faggot.

He imagined what Steve’d say if he saw him. Steve who’d been on at him to find himself a dame and settle down, as if he wouldn’t have been found out pretty instantly. He got what Stevie was doin, trying to protect him, but really he thought his act was a safer bet than finding some girl to disappoint.

As if he needed any more guilt over it all, convincing some poor dame he loved her. He weren’t gonna do that.

Len’d just gone back to his rations like nothing had happened at all. Which of course it hadn’t, but it’d got Bucky’s heart thudding in his chest, like he’d run a mile.

And not in a good way.

The idea of being caught, of being found out, that woke him up in cold sweats at night. It didn’t seem to bother Len at all.

“I don’t get how you can be so…” He trailed off because he had no idea how to finish.

“What?” Len was looking at him, all blue eyed and innocent as anything, a faint smirk playing across his face.

Bucky couldn’t help but grin. Something about Len was real easy, as if he just knew everything’d work out fine. Bucky nudged his shoulder. “You know.”

Len gave a loose shrug. “Guess I do.”

Bucky thought he was just gonna leave it there, as he went back to his food.

But he was just quiet for a couple of minutes, both of them watching where the low hill in front of them gave way into sand.

“Ain’t as if I don’t know. Still got the stripes on ma back, from all the knowin Father Howard thought I needed as a kid.”

“Jesus.”

The more Bucky talked to Len, the more lucky he thought he’d been. Sure, it’d been godawful sometimes, when Stevie had been sick and Bucky wasn’t due his pay for days. Some of the winters, when they had no money for fuel. It’d been lean and cold and miserable.

But God, he’d had Stevie, and they’d kept each other safe. More than that. Stevie had kept him sane.

“Did ya have someone, back home?”

Len’s face instantly lit up. “My Gem, you mean?”

He laughed.

Len had been entertaining them all for weeks, with tales of his sweetheart back home. He’d always play up his accent and tell some story about what a spitfire she was. Made out like he was some hapless country hick, while Gem had him wrapped around her finger.

Len’s face became fonder. “Five years now.”

“You don’t feel like you’re…” Bucky trailed off again.

“Nah, we broke it off, before… all this. Didn’t wanna be waitin on each other, you know. Just in case.” Len didn’t sound too convinced of it, staring intently at the floor between them. Bucky was pretty sure words didn’t make any difference in this situation. Wasn’t as if you could just stop feeling it.

Weren’t as if he hadn’t tried.

They were getting to the point of this conversation where it was difficult to keep it from being incriminating if they were overheard. “Where… err… you know?”

“South Pacific, somewhere, I guess.”

“Shit.”

Len hummed an agreement. “What about you?”

Bucky pulled a face that he hoped was pretty eloquent.

Len just laughed. “Yeah, I been that side of it too. Where?”

“Home. Safe. Thank God.”

“That’s good.”

Bucky laughed. “All burnt up about it to.”

“I bet. Reserved occupation?”

Bucky scraped up the last of his meal. “Something like that.”

He could hear the faint laughter of his squad behind the wall. Joey Matthews, he’d bet. Eighteen years old and always into trouble, but with the kinda grin that could get him outta it again.

There was another round of laughs.

Bucky decided to let it go. They weren’t being too rowdy and he reckoned there’d be precious little joking around once they got over the water.

Len finally finished eating. “I don’ know. What we gotta do. Hearin about what’s goin on over there.” He gestured over to the sea. “Back home… I seen people strung up, ya know.”

His face took on the dark look he got sometimes, when he talked about home, about Father Howard.

Bucky had heard about what happened in the south. He couldn’t imagine it.

Len ran a hand over his face, like he was wiping away memories. “All that awful shit. I guess, with the shit that people do, I just don’t see how what we’re doin could be that bad.”

He shifted so he was pretty much facing Buck, hand dropping lightly onto his. “Ain’t that what Jesus said. Love each other.”

“I don’t think that’s what He meant.”

Len laughed.

Bucky was glad he’d got Len outta his own head at least, he knew how dark it could get in there.

They dropped into silence for a few minutes, looking over the sea. Bucky just feeling Len rubbing his thumb in circles over the back of his wrist.

“I ain’t stupid.” Len looked back to him again. “I know I’m goin to Hell,” he intertwined their fingers, shrugged, and leaned forward, “I just figured, seeing as we’re already headin there…”

Bucky laughed, and took the bait, leaning forward to snatch a kiss. Just a quick press of lips. “You’re corruptin me.”

“I dunno, hoss. Reckon you was already there.”

Bucky grinned, kissed him again. “You might be on to somethin there.”

There was another huff of laughter from over the wall, except this time it was worryingly hushed and muffled. A half dozen guys trying real hard to not be heard.

Bucky sighed, dropped his forehead onto Len’s shoulder. “That’s Joey Matthews, ain’t it?”

“I would think so, yeah.”

“He’s got into the brass’s liquor again.”

“That’d be my guess.”

Bucky sighed again, squeezed Len’s hand. “See ya tomorrow.”

He pushed himself to his feet and scanned over the wall, to where his squad were huddled together, looking not the least bit suspicious.

“Matthews!”

“Sarge!”

“Come here!”

 

### September 1943

 

“Matthews! Get your head down!”

Bucky swore to Christ he didn’t know how that kid was still alive.

Still, Joey sheepishly ducked back down to press back against the stone, so that was one crisis averted.

Bucky turned back to Len behind the makeshift barricade. He shook his head ever so slightly. They’d been here for just under twenty hours.

Hold the bridge. Wait for artillery support.

Seemed easy enough for the first eighteen.

Until a German company had turned up, decided they’d quite like this particular bridge for the Führer and made their thirty men look pretty pathetic.

So they were huddled up behind the low stone wall that luckily splayed out from the end of the bridge at each side, cutting off the road from the steep ravine below. Listening to the staccato thump of bullets hitting the other side of the wall every time someone shifted position.

They’d lost six men in two hours, still laying where they’d fallen because they weren’t risking anyone else to move them away.

Their artillery was already seven and a half hours late.

Still, could be worse. Enemy must think they had more guys than they did though. He couldn’t think of another reason for them bunkering down across the river when they outnumbered them three to one easily.

When they finally got bored of trading pot shots and started across the bridge, it’d be over pretty quick.

From where Bucky was crouched facing their squad on the opposite side of the bridge, he could watch Lieutenant Asterton steadily losing what composure he’d had, while First Sergeant Wilkinson looked on helplessly.

Him and Len had laughed at Asterton’s appointment at first, having to follow some rich kid who looked barely out of school.

It weren’t funny anymore.

Bucky felt Len nudge his arm and he didn’t need to look to see what he was looking at. There was an edge of unease filtering its way round the platoon. There was nothing worse for morale than an officer who looked like he didn’t know what the Hell he should do.

Asterton had a habit of chewing at his nails, bad enough normally, but right now his hand only seemed to be out of his mouth when he was berating Harry Wilson for not getting through to their artillery.

That was riling Bucky up on its own, because Wilson was his guy, and he knew a damn sight more about that radio than Asterton ever would.

Len was still patting at his back.

“What?”

“You feel that?”

Bucky glanced back and just stared at him for a second, wondering whether to ask if he was feeling alright, when he heard the whisper of questions running through the men behind them.

He pressed his hand against the stone and felt the faint vibration through his fingers.

He met Len’s eye again. That couldn’t be good. He mouthed ‘earthquake?’ at him and got a shrug back in return.

The men on the other side of the bridge behind Asterton were beginning to take notice now. Asterton appeared to be oblivious.

He felt Len lean close. “Imma look.”

Bucky nodded, gripping his Colt tighter. They kept eye contact as they shifted position. Len nodded once and they both moved. Bucky kept low as he fired off a smattering of shots. He felt Len stiffen and then duck back down, heard his muffled “shit”.

He looked up as he grasped at Bucky’s wrist. “Tanks, it’s tanks.”

“Shit.”

It suddenly made sense. Why they’d been waiting. Why risk an infantry charge, when they could pin them down and blast them out.

As one, they turned back to Asterton, who wasn’t paying attention to anything except Wilson and that fucking radio.

Len tightened his grip on his wrist. “I gotta go over there.”

Bucky nodded, shrugged his Springfield off his shoulder. He glanced back over his shoulder at the men behind him. “Cover fire. On my signal.”

He got into position, rifle resting on the edge of the stone, feeling the shuffle of movement as his squad did the same.

Felt Len’s hand against his shoulder.  

Patting once.

Twice.

Len moved.

“Now!”

He knelt up. Fired. Heard the peal of the volley down the wall. Saw the stutter of movement in the tank turret.

He was drawing in a breath to shout ‘down’ as he saw the flash.

Then the breath was knocked out of him as he was flung backwards and sideways. His head thudded into the ground and he was gasping in a shower of soil and grit.

And he couldn’t drag in a breath. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the reverberation in his own skull.

“Sarge!”

He felt the first flicker of black start at the edges of his vision and all he could think was ‘no, not now, not yet’.

“Sarge! Shit!”

He forced himself up, even as the world tilted around him like he was drunk. He ignored it. Kept moving. He staggered a few steps and then there were hands dragging him forwards, pulling him into a press of bodies and warmth. More hands pulling at his shirt.

“I’m alright.”

And he was, he realised vaguely. He had a Hell of a headache, and his arm was screaming at him. But he was alright.

He glanced over through the tangle of arms towards the bit of wall he’d been behind. It’d crumbled into a pile where he’d been kneeling, but the blast wave had flung him away from the falling masonry.

“I’m alright.” He sat up, looked into the faces of his squad around him. “I’m okay.”

Roberts was still tugging at his bloody shirtsleeve and he realised he’d caught a bit of shrapnel. He stopped struggling and let Roberts do whatever he was doing.

Matthews was grinning at him. “You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I ever met.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and Matthews added a deferential “Sarge”.

He suddenly remembered what they had been doing. He spun around and got an indignant huff from Roberts.

But then he saw.

Len was lying on his back about twenty feet away. Bucky saw blood. A whole heap fucking ton of blood. He saw burns.

And Len’s eyes…. Len’s fucking eyes were open.

And he wasn’t moving.

Not an inch.

A couple of Len’s squad were getting ready to rush out and pull him back, under the thump of gunfire and the threat of goddamn tank shells.

“Leave him!”

He saw the flash of surprise cross a few faces. But that was a lot of blood and maybe it’d be different if Len were moving. If he were crying out, but he wasn’t.

If Bucky could be sure he was alive.

But Bucky had his squad and Len’s to watch out for now.

And Len wasn’t moving.

He wasn’t fucking moving.

Fuck.

He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk men on a rescue. Couldn’t order it.

It burned at him, but he couldn’t.

And he couldn’t go himself because he had seventeen men here counting on him.

And Len was bleeding out. He was bleeding… He was dying…

But they’d all die dragging him back in. They’d die.

Len was dead. Len was… Len was fucking dead… And…

And he was breaking. His heart was fucking bursting open. He was all emptied out. And…

“Leave him. He’s gone. Leave him.”

Bucky shoved all of that into a box in the back of his head. Into a box marked ‘DO NOT FUCKING OPEN. EVER.’.

He turned back to the opposite side of the bridge. His stomach lurched as he saw that Wilson was down.

Asterton was screaming into the radio, sitting up too high, and everyone was fucking terrified. Wide eyed and terrified.

A sudden crack of a rifle and the back of Asterton’s head exploded in a spray of blood. He collapsed backwards.

Roberts gave a shrill gasp at the side of him.

Wilkinson was just staring at the body. Blankly. Empty.

They were going to die here. He realised, faintly.

He were going to die here.

“I have to talk to Sergeant Wilkinson.”

Even as he spoke, the world behind Wilkinson exploded in a spray of blood and soil. Wilkinson snapped round and just stared at the carnage.

“I have to speak to Wilkinson.”

He glanced around him. His squad were already nodding, shifting position.

He breathed in several deep breaths, trying not to think about what getting hit by a tank shell must feel like. “On my signal.”

He breathed in deeply.

In. Out.

He felt dizzy. 

In. Out.

In.

“Now!”

His legs were burning. His lungs were burning. Noise erupted around him.

But he was running.

Still running.

He skidded. Almost ploughed straight into Wilkinson. Dropped into an undignified heap onto his knees. But he was there. He’d made it.

Wilkinson was clutching at his shirt.

He gasped in a breath. “We gotta move.”

Wilkinson’s eyes were roaming all over him. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know. We have to move.”

Wilkinson shook his head slowly. “We have to hold the bridge.”

“With what!? Listen,” he grasped at Wilkinson’s shirt, “artillery are nearly eight hours late. They’re not coming. We have rifles, and pistols. We cannot hold this bridge.”

He realised he didn’t care. He was pretty sure that made him the worst soldier in the world. But he didn’t care.

All he knew, with absolute clarity, was that this bridge was not worth dying for. It was not worth his guys dying for.

He did a rapid headcount. Almost half their guys were down already.

No more men were dying today. Not his men.

“We have to retreat to the line. Something must have happened. Artillery aren’t coming.”

Wilkinson was nodding vaguely.

“You have to order it. You have seniority.”

Wilkinson wasn’t answering.

Someone was shouting in German, words he didn’t understand. He met the eyes of one of Wilkinson’s men.

The man nodded. “He’s asking us to surrender, sir.”

Like fuck were they surrendering.

He shook Wilkinson’s collar. “We have to retreat. Now.”

“Yes.”

He was taking that as a fucking order.

He sprang to his feet and his guys must have been ready for it, because a peal of gunfire erupted from the wall opposite him. He sprinted, dropped to his knees in front on Roberts.

“We’re retreating.”

He glanced back. Wilkinson was giving orders, he must have got with the programme.

“We’re retreating.” He turned back. “Me and Roberts and…” scanned round, “McKendrick will make up the rear guard. Everyone else go, meet up with the line.”

He got a smattering of “Yes, Sarge”s. He raised his Springfield, positioned it against the wall.

He glanced back. Wilkinson was watching for him.

He gave a nod.

Wilkinson raised a hand.

Bucky waited.

Wilkinson’s hand fell.

“Now!”

Bucky fired. Felt movement at his back. Felt Roberts and McKendrick at his side.

He kept firing.

“Get ready!”

He picked a target. Fired one more shot.

“Now!”

He turned and ran, Roberts and McKendrick at his back, moving with him.

And he was running.

He kept running.

***

It was almost nightfall by the time they regrouped, on the edge of the treeline, and Bucky’s lungs were burning. He did a quick headcount. They hadn’t lost anyone else. No one had lost their bearings in the woods.

They hadn’t been pursued.

It can’t have been worth it.

The Krauts had the bridge. They’d completed their orders.

No sense losing anyone chasing a couple of dozen men through the woods.

Bucky sank into a crouch, trying to get his breath back, while the others exchanged canteens and soft words.

“Barnes?” Wilkinson came to crouch next to him. “You alright?”

He nodded. “You get me a shot of bourbon and a bed for the night, and I’ll be swell.”

Wilkinson smiled tightly. “You and me both.”

He stuffed a hand inside his coat and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper, as he spread it out, Bucky recognised it as the map Asterton had been checking compulsively since yesterday.

“The bridge we lost was here.” Wilkinson pointed, he drew his finger in an arch across the page. “The flank of our column is vulnerable, ya see? Krauts can get in behind us.”

Bucky nodded, seeing the various intersections where the German counter force could come up behind their advance towards Naples.

Wilkinson looked up at him. “I’m gonna order a forced march, we gotta meet up with the line and warn em. God knows what happened to the artillery.”

Bucky was nodding. Wasn’t as if they had much choice. They had to get out of enemy territory as quick as possible. If they were caught out here with no supplies, they were fucked. “Where can we rendezvous?”

Wilkinson scanned the map, finally dropped his finger. “Here’s where Asterton said they were planning to camp before pushing north, worth heading that way. We should catch up with the back of the column before that anyway.”

Bucky nodded. It was a decent plan. They would have to work out something else if it went to shit. “Where is it?”

“Bout thirty-six miles from here.” Wilkinson carefully folded up his map, stowed it safely in his pack. “We keep heading north we should be alright. We just gotta follow signs for Azzano. They’re campin about eight miles from there.”

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the burning in his feet and the desperation in him to just curl up and sleep. “We’d best get goin then. Sure will be Hell if we miss em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took some liberties with the invasion of Sicily and the advance to Naples ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Chapter 3

### November 1943

 

Whatever adrenaline had kept him running through a fucking burning building had well and truly left him by the time they stopped to get their bearings. Steve started giving orders, to patch up the wounded, work out a way to more comfortably transport those that couldn’t walk.

Left Bucky just hovering awkwardly on the side lines, swaying on his feet.

However, in what felt like a heartbeat (but must have been longer, which didn’t imply great things about the state of his health), Steve was back, tugging him slightly away from the others.

As soon as they were relatively alone, Steve turned around and pulled him into a hug. It took Bucky a couple of seconds for his brain to catch up and wrap his arms around the bulk of Steve in return.

It felt odd, all that muscle. There’d never been an inch of give in Stevie’s body, but before he’d been all sharp edges. Now he was just warm, and solid and _there_ …

“Oh!”

Steve sounded surprised, and there was a time lag before Bucky realised that he was no longer really supporting his own weight. Just clinging to Steve’s shoulders.

“You’re alright.” Steve was patting at his back, as he gently sat him down into the leaves. “You’re ok. I’ll be back in a second, alright?”

Bucky didn’t really want to let go, but there was no way in hell he could keep a hold of Stevie now. So he did as he was told and let himself just sink into how weird and floaty he felt.

Steve pressed a canteen into his hand as soon as he came back. “Here, just take a second, ok?”

He was pretty sure his stomach was not gonna like it, but he took a couple of gulps anyway. Steve was crouched next to him, rubbing up and down his back. When he was done, and had dropped the canteen onto the ground, Steve shifted around.

“Alright, I’m just gonna take a look at you, ok?”

Again, Bucky caught it late, Steve was already reaching for the hem of his sweater. He’d already slapped his hand away before he’d made sense of the words.

“Whoa,” Steve held his hands up, “alright. I won’t… I won’t but someone’s gotta check you over, Buck. It don’t… It don’t gotta be me, but… You want me to get someone else?”

He was pretty sure there was an edge of hurt behind Steve’s voice but he couldn’t quite make sense of it. What did make it through was that Stevie was worried.

He forced a smile. “I’m ok, pal, promise. I’m just tired.”

Steve’s grin flashed across his face. There and gone. “Then just let me check. You know I fret.”

He nodded. Never could beat Stevie in a fight.

Steve tucked up the bottom of his sweater so gently that Bucky could’ve just cried with it. He could hear in Steve’s silence that he’d seen the way his ribs were a little too visible, the bruises that still stretched up his left side.

All in all, he’d got off lucky. Whatever had been done to him to set him off screamin hadn’t left a mark on his skin.

Steve carefully smoothed the fabric back down. “You’re alright,” he said again.

Bucky wondered exactly who he was trying to convince. If he was just saying it to keep reminding himself.

Steve settled himself down next to him. “You know, we’ve probably got twenty minutes or so before we’re ready to get moving. If you wanna take a minute.”

Honestly, that was the best suggestion Stevie had made so far today. Before Bucky had really got a handle on himself, he’d lolled over onto Steve’s lap.

“Oh!”

Steve was surprised again. Could feel the tension all through his legs.

Musta done something wrong again. Maybe he didn’t oughta be so handsy.

“Buck?”

“’S alrigh’. Aint gonna _do_ anythin.”

“What?”

He could feel Stevie leaning over him, tryin to catch what he said, but there was no way in hell he was repeating it. He kept his breathing steady, like he was already sleeping.

“Bucky?”

Steve was still sayin his name, but less like he wanted a response this time. Bucky felt the warmth of his hand drop gently onto the back of his neck.

Took him a second to realise it was settled over his pulse point.

That was sweet of him, Bucky thought vaguely, as he let himself drift before he had to get up and march again.

***

 

He could hear Steve calling his name, through the fog covering over his brain. He’d followed him out into the street.

Bucky shouldn’t have kept drinking, sat alone at the bar, while Steve flitted between him and the rest of them. Not when he was still half starved and exhausted.

He’d never been a drinker, not really. Not after seeing what it’d done to his pa.

But maybe all that ran in the blood after all.

He sure seemed to have made up for it these last few years.

“Bucky! Hold up, Christ!”

He’d been trying to make a quick exit, while Steve was preoccupied. Watching him with the others had been sending icy spikes of jealousy through his gut. But that was nothing, nothing compared to seeing him with Peggy goddamn Carter.

Stevie was so dizzy, he could barely get a goddamn word out.

Christ, Bucky hated her. And he hated himself for hating her.

But he couldn’t help the little burst of fire in his gut, when someone clapped Stevie on the back, or when he was laughing at someone else’s dumb joke, goin all dizzy over Peggy.

The fire that said ‘I loved you first. I loved you when we had nothin at all.’

Because deep in the pit of his heart, he didn’t know what would happen now that Steve didn’t need him.

Now Steve could have the whole world if he wanted it.

Seemed Bucky was surplus to requirements.

Anyway, he hadn’t been able to sneak away, tripping over the back of some big bastard’s stool and pitching himself into a load of limeys playing cards.

He was a fucking idiot.

“Bucky!”

 He jerked back at Steve’s hand on his elbow. He was still so goddamn jumpy, after everything.

It took him off balance, and as the world span around him in a way his fuzzy brain noted was not physically possible, he realised he couldn’t possibly right himself.

Just as he resigned himself vaguely to falling face first into the gutter, Steve’s arms hooked around his chest and hauled him up.

“Woah, pal. I got ya.”

He could hear the laugh in Steve’s voice, and he threw himself forward away from him.

“Y’avin fun with ya new pals?”

He watched as Steve parsed that out, ignoring the voice at the back of his head screaming at him that this was a fucking terrible idea. Steve broke into a frown as soon as he made sense of it.

“Alright, time for bed, I think.”

He reached out again and Bucky slapped his hand away, nearly pitching himself onto the ground again.

“Bucky, the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me, Stevie? Take your goddamn pick!”

He saw Steve glance around him, knew they must be attracting attention, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He reckoned he’d seen about too goddamn much to give a shit what anyone thought of him anymore.

Steve lowered his voice, stepped forward again. “We’ll talk about it later, ok? Let’s just-“

“You got everything you ever wanted!”

And he had. Bucky remembered thinking how Steve’d always wanted to be a white knight. Launcelot outta the old stories, and now he really was.

Steve’s patience finally snapped. “You resent that? Really? After everything?”

“No, Stevie.” Even he couldn’t tell whether sitting down on the sidewalk was a conscious decision or not. What he did know is that now he was sat. And the kerb was wet. “I only ever wanted you to be alright.”

Steve sighed the sigh of the longsuffering, ran a hand through his hair so that it was sticking up weirdly, and sat down next to him.

“I know, pal. I do.”

Bucky had to fight real, real hard not to just loll onto his shoulder. And only about half of that was because he was pretty as all hell.

He had to shut his eyes to stop feeling like he was spinning.

“Why didn’t ya stay?”

“Buck, I aint got a clue what you’re talkin about.”

“That night. At the Stark Expo. Why’d ya go?”

“Oh.” He opened his eyes, managed to focus on Steve’s frown. Steve gestured down at himself. “To get all this, I guess.”

“Bullshit. Ya didn’t know that then. I wanted you there, punk.”

“No, you didn’t, pal. You had them dames, I was a distraction.”

“No. I wanted you.” Bucky realised he was shaking Steve’s wrist insistently. He let his hand drop. “I only invited them cos…” _Cos I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable._ “Don’t matter why. I needed you there, pal.”

But Steve was shaking his head. “You ain’t ever needed me.”

“Bullshit!” He stood up too suddenly, stumbled forwards.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky!” He felt Steve grab his arm again, drag him back. “This is a street. There’re cars.”

He twisted in Steve’s grip, got his arm free. “I was scared, Steve! I was shit scared and I wanted you to… to admit that I might not come back.”

“Bucky-“

“Stop fucking saying that! Stop saying my name like I’m some dame you can shut up!”

Steve’s mouth clamped closed.

“You just kept talkin about how goddamn great it was to be goin, or whatever shit you were spoutin. But you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to!”

He oughta have stopped about five minutes ago, but gin had loosened up the space between his mind and his mouth, and he couldn’t work out how to plug it.

“Well, you got what ya wanted didn’t you? Everythin you wanted.” He threw his arms wide. “Is it still fun now, Stevie? Is it?”

He was breathing heavily, gasping in air like he’d been running for hours. There was a deep silence in between them, stretching out across the street. He knew that in the anaemic light from the street lamps, the bruises still on his face were uncomfortably visible.

Steve looked away first. “I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t… I thought you’d joined up just to… I don’t know. Outta spite, you know. Cos I couldn’t. You knew I wanted to and you’d never shown any-“

Bucky cut him off with a burst of obnoxious laughter. The kind that was cruel. That made Steve take a step back.

“I didn’t enlist. I was drafted, Stevie.”

Steve’s mouth dropped open, and Bucky just couldn’t stop laughing.

“You really think I’d sign up for this, pal?”

“But… Becca said-“

“I told Becca I had. Told em all I had. Thought it’d be easier on em, if I cashed in my chips out here, you know?”

“Buck.” Steve closed the distance between them. “I’m sorry. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. You’ve been so… ever since…”

Ever since Steve’d decided he didn’t dare house share with a faggot anymore.

But no, that weren’t fair. Steve’d been trying to protect him, to protect them both.

Still Bucky had probably been a bit of a dick about it. He sure felt like a dick. He looked at the floor. “Was you who kicked me out, pal. Not the other way round.”

“I didn’t kick…” He practically heard Steve cut himself off. “It was just, in that house, you were so… But we can talk about it later.”

Bucky knew that meant they never would.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t, Buck.” He felt Steve’s hand on his shoulder, forced himself to meet his eye. Steve was forcing a grin. “I think we got our wires crossed somewhere along the line, pal.”

“Yeah…”

“Come here.”

He let Steve pull him into a hug. It was weird, uncoordinated, Stevie was huge. Bucky nearly bashed his jaw into his shoulder.

Steve huffed a laugh. “Sorry, I’m not used to it yet.” He pulled back, started to tug him along the street. “Come on. Let’s get back. Where’re you stayin?”

“Barracks. Bunkin with the limeys.”

“Ah, well, they put me up in a hotel. ‘S closer.”

Bucky shrugged. “Privileges of rank?”

“Hardly. Privileges of being a dancin monkey. Come on, it’s this way.”

 Bucky stopped. “We can’t. People’ll…”

He didn’t really want to finish that. Didn’t really know how to.

Steve didn’t even glance at him. “It’s fine. I’ll tell everyone you were too drunk to make it back.” He smiled. “And trust me, buddy, everyone in that bar’ll back me up.”

Steve slung his arm around his shoulder. It was a warm weight through his jacket.

“You know,” Steve glanced across, “you could go home. After everything. You’ve done enough, Buck.”

Bucky felt himself tense. “What Section Eight? I ain’t goin home a coward.” He’d worked too damn hard not to get a blue ticket to get shipped back now. “I’d rather die out here than that.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I would. No one’s laying that on me. I’ll do what I gotta do. I will, but I don’t have to like it.”

He felt Steve looking at him. “I am sorry.”

“I know.” He didn’t know exactly what Steve was apologising for, but he accept. He’d always accept. “I meant what I said back there. I ain’t goin anywhere without you.”

Steve tugged him tighter. “End of the line, right?”

“Damn straight.”

***

The booze had hit him hard with the cold air, but by the time they reached Stevie’s hotel, it’d mostly burned out of him. He was left bone weary and miserable.

Stevie had noticed and shifted his arm to around his back, kept up a steady stream of nonsense. Stories about people Bucky wasn’t ever likely to meet. Or who were probably dead already.

“Come on,” Steve tugged him up the steps to the hotel foyer, “ain’t far now. Then ya can sleep it off.”

The hotel was all tiled floors and brass lamps. Fancy as fuck.

“If your ma could see us now, Stevie.”

He felt Steve laugh. “Reckon she’d have had some words to say about it.”

“Mmhmm, in London too.”

Sarah Rogers had never quite got over the Easter Risin, and the news of her cousin who didn’t make it out of the following conflict alive.

“People are always dyin, Stevie.”

“I know, pal.” Steve tugged him into the elevator. “Nearly there now.”

The elevator was too bright, too many mirrors. He felt exposed. The operator kept glancing at them and he was about to ask what the hell his problem was, when he recognised the pity in his expression.

But Steve was pulling him out and along the corridor before he could lay into him anyway.

Steve propped him up against the wall as he fished out his key and let them in.

The room was big, double bed and a table in this part, and a restroom which Bucky could see through a partition.

“Christ, Stevie. This’s nicer than Warren Street.”

Steve didn’t smile, just walked him over to the bed, pushed at him until he sat. “There. Y’alright to get yourself undressed.”

Bucky was pretty sure every drop of blood in his body had rushed themselves to his face and his dick, and he suddenly wished he’d drunk enough to put him down for the count entirely on that front.

He just nodded, sure his voice’d draw attention to it.

Steve turned away, shucking his jacket as he went. Bucky realised all of a sudden that his shirt was _tight_.

“You want anything? Water?”

Steve didn’t turn around as he said it, so Bucky was forced to try and get his shit together enough to answer ‘yes’.

Steve returned with a glass, and barely even glanced at him as he started stripping his clothes.

Bucky just couldn’t, couldn’t help himself.

Steve was beautiful. He’d always been beautiful, and he was still all perfect lines. He looked like warmth and home and sunshine all rolled up into one.

And God, Bucky ached to touch him. Physically ached with it.

He could faintly remember the feel of a soft hand in his, the press of his lips against skin.

All the grief for Len welled up in him again, sharp and empty, but it was all mixed up with the knowledge that he’d never had it with Stevie, and Stevie was all he’d ever wanted, and…

Steve finally turned around and laughed. “You want a hand there, Buck?”

He realised he was still sat exactly as Steve has left him, water undrunk, clothes still on, and that just broke down his last barrier. He felt himself crumple.

“Oh, Buck.” He felt Steve settle at his side, wrap an arm around his shoulder. “I don’t… Do you… Do you want to talk about it?”

Bucky choked out a laugh. That was really the last thing he wanted.

“Is it… I know it musta been… Ah, shit…”

Bucky let himself lean into Steve’s shoulder, let himself be held up.

Steve dropped his free hand to clasp at his. “You know, you know you can tell me anythin, don’t ya? Don’t matter if you don’t wanna… But you know, right?”

Bucky loved him so much, he couldn’t bear it. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Steve’s thumb was rubbing over his, and he could just about make out the thin scar Steve’d got slicing up potatoes. Bucky had wrapped his hand up in a dishcloth and held it above his head until Steve had started whining that his arm was going numb.

His Stevie.

He couldn’t help it any longer. Even if it broke something between them, he couldn’t help it. He might die. They both might die, and he couldn’t go not knowing what Stevie felt like.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What fo-“

He lifted his head, and, before he could second guess himself, pressed the lightest of kisses against his mouth. Steve’s lips parted a little, in surprise, and Bucky pushed forward ever so slightly. Trying to commit every second to memory.

Trying to burn the taste of him into his memory.

Then Steve’s hands were on his shoulders, shoving him backwards. Bucky was left clawing onto air as Steve threw himself over into the far corner.

They were both breathing hard.

“I’m not-“

“I know.” Bucky thought his heart might break. He forced a smile. “I know that, pal. It won’t change anythin, I swear. I…” He could see the confusion slowly morphing over the shock in Steve’s face, and felt himself falter. He stood up without really knowing what he intended to do. “I… I mean, unless you wanna, you know, report it-“

“No! That’s not what I… Jesus Christ, no, Buck. But you…”

Bucky found himself stepping backwards, away from that open surprise. Because it wasn’t right. It wasn’t…

“You knew.” He knew he was pointing, even as he stepped away, stumbled as his leg hit the edge of the bed. “You knew. You don’t get to pretend now that you didn’t.”

Steve had sad, sad eyes, apologetic, but still confused. “Bucky, I-“

“No! You knew because you said! You said that people were talking. You said it!”

His hands were shaking. He could see Stevie searching for the memory, and he also saw the exact moment Steve found it… and burst into obnoxious laughter.

Bucky felt sick. He made for the door, didn’t know where he was gonna go, but anywhere, anywhere was better than here.

“No, Buck! No!” Steve caught his wrist. He was still laughing, cheeks flushed pink. “I’m sorry. No.” He had to break off to swallow a gulp of laughs. “They were… they were talkin about me.”

Bucky was almost damn sure he felt the earth shake underneath his feet. He heard himself say “oh,” distantly.

“It was me. They were-“ Steve broke off again, took a deep breath, composed himself. “They were saying that I was, I dunno, leadin you astray or somethin.”

“Oh,” he heard himself say again.

Now it was apparent he wasn’t going to bolt, Steve clearly felt safe to let go of his wrist. He clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like this whole thing was a misunderstanding.

Bucky found himself grinning along, though he didn’t have a fucking clue why.

“Who would be talkin about you, Buck? Was a time that whenever I went to buy groceries I got stopped by some dame’s brother, demandin to know whether I’d been chaperoning! Only reason you weren’t getting socked every time you went out was that you were too good at talkin your way outta it!”

“I wasn’t-”

“Yeah. Yeah, you were. Never seen a man talk his way outta so many fights. Ya had to, ya had a new sweetheart every month!”

 “Yeah,” Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck, “I guess I was tryin a little hard.”

“Tryin…” Steve’s face fell, like he’d just remembered what they were talking about. “Really? But you had that… dame.”

Bucky saw Steve swerve away from ‘whore’ at the last second, and he appreciated that effort at least.

“I was never sweet on Jela, Stevie.”

Steve still had that look on his face like it might all be a joke.

“Sure you were, Buck. You were always like that with the dames.” All of a sudden, Steve’s face dropped as he’d realised what he’d said. He stared off into the corner, probably replaying dozens of interactions in his mind. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

Steve snapped back to him. “No. Don’t. Don’t apologise.”

He took a step forward, and Bucky had to fight not to step away. That’d just crumple Stevie all up. So he let him come closer, til they were just inches apart. Let Steve pull him close. “It’s alright.”

When they parted, Steve kept a hold of him, hand against the back of his neck. There was something bright and fragile shining in his face. Something that opened up a crack of hope deep inside Bucky.

“When you…” Steve kept his voice low, “was that just, just the drink talkin?”

Bucky felt his throat close up. Shook his head ‘no’. Because he couldn’t speak.

Steve was right here. They were safe. The crackle of electricity still burned at the back of his head when he thought about Austria. But he’d got out. Steve had got him out.

And Steve was here.

Lookin at him like that.

“Hey.” Steve tucked his thumb underneath his chin, and leaned in to match Bucky’s kiss form earlier, gentle and tentative.

It was so… It was too much.

Everything was too much.

He felt a sob force its way up through his chest. Felt like his heart was bursting.

“Hey, hey.” Steve pulled back, there was a laugh in his voice. “Hell, you really did get yourself worked up. Come on.”

Bucky let himself be walked back to the bed. “I don’t want you doin this cos you think you gotta, or somethin.”

Steve laughed again. “Pretty sure that’s my line, bud.”

As soon as he was settled back, Steve clambered up onto the bed after him, dropped his hand gently onto his hip. “I ain’t gonna do anythin,” he said softly, a promise, “I just reckon you’ll be spittin blood tomorrow if I let ya sleep in your clothes.”

Bucky smiled. “Reckon you’re right there.”

Between them they stripped off all of their clothes, save their briefs, and when they were down to just their skin, Steve leaned over him for another chaste kiss.

Bucky was pretty sure his heart was soaring, somewhere above his body, thrumming with the knowledge that Steve wanted him back.

_Steve wanted him._

But with it came the treacherous doubt again.

He pushed Steve back, so he could look him in the eye. Steve Rogers was the worst liar in the world. He wanted to be able to see.

“Don’t do this if you’re not sure, alright? Cos I couldn’t…”

For a brief moment, he thought he was gonna end that with ‘survive it’, but that was pretty dramatic, even for him. He smiled instead of finishing, a brittle thing that felt like it would crack his jaw.

Steve just watched him for a long time. Then he sighed, leaned up on his elbow at his side. “What can I say to convince you, Buck?”

Bucky thought about it, absently letting his fingers trail up the new muscle of Stevie’s arm. “When did you know?”

“Know?”

“That you wanted me?”

Steve caught his hand and just held it.

“Christ, you musta been about sixteen. You were always layin into me about me gettin into trouble. ‘Bout how you always had to follow me into it. And I remember thinkin how pretty you looked, with that look on your face. I mean, you were always pretty, when you were laughin or whatever. But that day, lookin at me like I was the most irritatin punk you’d ever laid eyes on, that day I remember thinkin that I hoped you’d never get sick of followin me into trouble.”

Steve went instantly pink, as the laughter that’d been swelling up inside Bucky’s chest finally burst out.

“I, I mean, I didn’t mean…”

“Shut up and kiss me, Stevie.”

Stevie didn’t waste any time, and this time they went further. It still wasn’t leading anywhere, there was no way either of them was capable of that tonight, but it had a promise to it. Not tonight, but one day.

Steve eventually pulled back, breathless and grinning. “Guess that wasn’t very romantic, huh?”

Bucky’s heart was soaring again. “It was perfect, pal.”

Steve tucked himself down against Bucky’s side, the way Bucky had always imagined he would.

“Tell me yours.” Bucky could feel the whisper of Steve’s breath against his skin. “When did you know?”

Bucky smiled again, wrapped his arms around the whole new breadth of Stevie. “I’ll tell ya later, darlin.”

 


End file.
